Read sample Hung Verdict

CHAPTER ONE

Jack Cahill was a man enslaved by blood and circumstance. Whichever way he looked he was beholden to his heritage, and it was a heavy weight of obligation for a free spirit to shoulder. However, he wasn’t so self-absorbed that he did not want to repay the debt. Just not like this.

‘Let’s face it, Uncle Paul, you’re such a hypochondriac someone only has to have a cold for you to consider them at death’s door. I don’t doubt Mam’s under the weather, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it in her letter, but there’s no call for me to go haring over to her bedside.’

‘She’ll be sicker than she wants us to know.’

‘Even so, she’d be furious to think I’d spent hard-earned money on going all that way just to hold her hand.’

‘I’ll be the one who’s paying, so you let me be the one to worry about that.’

‘That’s not what I’m getting at.’

Jack Cahill and his employer – his mother’s brother – were sitting in the Carlyle Club’s stuffy overheated library nursing their after-lunch brandies. Jack had been living in London for over seven months and had no desire to reacquaint himself with the harsh streets of Dublin – a city where, these days, British soldiers or impetuous Irish Republicans thought nothing of shooting first and assessing loyalties later. Not that life in the East End was one long rosy picnic, but on a regular day, the worst that was likely to happen was to be clubbed over the head after a drunken night in a riverside pub.

Jack made a show of looking at his watch. ‘It’s about time I got back to work. As you’re always reminding me, a newspaper won’t write itself and I’d hate for you to think I’m in the habit of trading on kinship to play the slacker.’

‘Family feeling ought to mean something more to you than fodder for a flippant remark. I was more than happy to hire you, but my generosity deserves a little recompense, don’t you think?’

‘You can’t say I don’t earn every penny of my wages; I give my heart and soul to that job.’

‘Indeed you do, but sometimes in life being hell bent on proving yourself isn’t enough – as no doubt you’ll realise when you grow out of thinking all that matters is making a big enough splash. Don’t let me leave this conversation imagining you’ve misplaced what it is to be Irish, underneath those worldly airs you’ve picked up, Jack. Go and see your mother.’

The implied defection stung. Jack disguised his hurt by sketching an airy salute as he turned his back on his uncle and left the room.

Jack swung by the coroner’s court on his way to the East End News office. A sparring of wits with May wasn’t guaranteed to make him feel any better, but it would take his mind off Uncle Paul’s casual defamation of his character; besides, she might just have a juicy case for him to get his journalistic teeth into.

May Keaps was the Poplar coroner’s officer, a good friend when she wasn’t so tautly-strung that she turned in on herself, and occasional working partner when mutual interests threw up the opportunity. He enjoyed the spark of their working together; May would have him believe she found it irksome and that he contributed nothing more than a nose for a good story, but that was only her fierce independence talking. He often thought they’d have the perfect relationship, if only they could find a way to forgive each other their foibles.

May barely looked up at his knock. ‘Oh, it’s you. I was expecting to spot you earlier, up in the press gallery.’

‘What did I miss? Apart from the pleasure of looking down on your lovely head.’

‘I haven’t time for your soft speeches, Jack, I’m busy. If you’d been at the inquest this morning, you’d know that Dr Swan got the jury rattled with talk of fatal poisonings from a mystery source.’

‘The famous “never-commit-if-you-don’t-know-the-answer” Dr Swan actually said that?’

‘Not exactly, but he did let slip that he couldn’t determine what killed Jacob Lebovitz, or whether it was highly contagious. He exited the courtroom rubbing his hands at the prospect of coming across more sudden deaths, cause unknown.’

‘What a grisly outlook that man has. Not dissimilar to my Uncle Paul, as it happens. I’ve just come from lunch at his club.’ Jack picked up a paperclip to straighten. ‘I’m sorry to say I left him feeling not very happy with me.’

‘Unlike you, I don’t have a rich relative to whisk me away from my desk so, unless you’ve a good reason for interrupting me, I have to get on.’

Jack felt the stab of childish hurt for the second time in as many hours. ‘I hoped you might be pleased to see me.’

‘I am, really I am, but if I don’t get this report finished for Coroner Clarke to take back to Shoreditch, then we’ll both find ourselves in someone’s bad books. Look, why don’t I meet you in the Resolute Tavern for a drink after work? You can tell me all about why you’ve such a long face then. Now get off and do some work of your own. I’ll see you tonight at six.’

May was struggling to replace the typewriter ribbon when the street door banged, and she heard the distinctive tread of Braxton Clarke crossing the vestibule. With the loose-limbed gait of a dancer, he always sounded as if he was about to break into a soft-shoe-shuffle. He rapped lightly on her open door and paused for permission to enter; his respect for her position was one of the things that made working under him such a pleasure. Although it was his tendency to undermine his expensive suits with splodges of oil from impromptu repairs to his car that gave her the most delight.

‘How’s it going, May? I’ve a few minutes before I need to set off again.’

He lowered himself into the visitor’s chair in front of the fireplace while she carried on with her typing. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him running his fingers down his trouser leg, pinching at the crease as if plucking up courage. May pulled the final page of the report out of the typewriter and waited.

The silence appeared to urge him on.

‘That last inquest was rather an interesting one, don’t you think? Dr Swan’s uncharacteristic contribution rather surprised me. I do hope he’s wrong about us needing to gird our loins for an influx of guests to the mortuary; we’ve already begun influenza season, and I suspect we’ll have more than our fair share of homeless destitute to identify as a result. I don’t suppose you’ve had the time to glance at this morning’s newspapers?’

‘Not yet. I try to catch up on an entire week’s worth at the library every Friday.’

‘Do you recall what happened to Horace McNeil?’

‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. Did we have an inquest on him?’

‘We’re about to. Set it up for this Thursday, will you? No public announcement, as we already know who to call to give testimony. No need to ask Rose to check my diary because I am already due to be in Shoreditch that day – my deputy can stand in for me there. McNeil was the man shot in his home last Wednesday by a gang of IRA thugs. He died yesterday evening. Neighbours heard the shot and ran out of their doors just in time to catch sight of the escaping attackers. None of them, when being interviewed immediately afterwards, said anything that allowed the police to identify the men. However, Scotland Yard are under the impression they might be more forthcoming in our courtroom. With that in mind, they have arranged for armed police to be present at the inquest.’

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and slipped it onto the corner of May’s desk.

‘Here are the witnesses’ names and addresses. Speak to them yourself, and don’t share these contact details with anyone else. Should any reporters be in the press gallery on Thursday, I’ll be instructing them not to publish any identifying information. Although I prefer to think the police precautions an over-reaction rather than a necessity, there are more than the usual terrorist sensitivities surrounding this case. They wanted to issue us both with revolvers.’

May felt her mouth dry. ‘Coroner Clarke, I really don’t think I could …’

‘I’ve already vetoed that as an outlandish idea. I can only assume they thought Coroner’s Officer Keaps a war veteran well acquainted with firearms, and me a colonel in the territorial army. We’ve agreed to settle on a pistol in the drawer of my desk on the dais. That unusual addition aside, the inquest will be the same as any concerning an unlawful killing. Once the jury have returned their verdict, the case of Mr McNeil will be back in the hands of the police to deal with. Is that the report on the food poisoning? I’ll sign it now.’

‘Don’t you want to read it first?’

‘And what would be the point of that? I already know it’ll be a faithful account of proceedings.’

May flushed at the memory of the one occasion she had contrived to put words in his mouth, in order to advance an investigation. She had never been tempted again. Braxton Clarke took his fountain pen from his top pocket, appended his signature with a flourish, and left May to dab at it with blotting paper. He’d managed to get ink on the cuff of his shirt. Giving her a rueful smile, he pulled down his jacket sleeve to hide the offending stain, picked up his briefcase from beside the chair and sauntered out of her office. May felt the energy in the room evaporate.

CHAPTER TWO

The Resolute Tavern was noisy and boisterous. It was crammed with dock workers slaking their thirst before returning home, and sailors making the most of their shore leave. May spotted Jack sitting in a corner, staring into his glass of beer. He was a man who, once he had put himself in a mood of self-castigation, liked to wallow in it. She ordered a shandy at the counter and took it over to join him. But she’d misjudged his mood because when he looked up at her, he was smiling.

‘Blossom of May, I’d almost begun to think you’d stood me up. Take a pew.’

He’d started calling her by that ridiculous nickname when they’d been roped together in a foolhardy escapade she preferred to forget. Now, he only ever used it when he was sentimental or drunk. May waited to discover which one it was this time.

‘I’ll show Uncle Paul I can’t be sidelined into petty trivia no one gives a damn about. I’m going to come up with a breaking story the editor can’t refuse to print, whatever prohibitions on treating me as a regular newspaperman my uncle has handed down. It was Dr Swan set me on to it’ – Jack’s other habitual position when his back was to the wall: supreme overconfidence – ‘with his statement at the inquest this morning about there being a killer disease picking everyone off left, right and centre.’

May was appalled to hear Jack twisting what she’d told him earlier. ‘That’s not true, and you know it. Dr Swan only said he couldn’t pinpoint the cause of death.’

Jack raised his glass in triumph. ‘Now that’s a confirmation if ever I heard one, or I’m not the most enterprising reporter on the East End News.’

May was cross with herself for rising to the bait and in the process unwittingly appearing to give credence to Jack’s wild exaggerations. ‘You can’t possibly run with such a perversion of the facts. Not least because it could end up hindering the genuine investigation into the cause of the food poisoning.’

‘My investigation will be genuine. If I didn’t know you to be a woman who ploughs her own furrow, I’d be tempted to think you were in league with Uncle Paul in the conspiracy to squash my initiative.’

May thought it wise not to bite a second time. If he ever got around to concocting a story, she would get on her high horse and insist he not include anything Dr Swan said in the course of giving inquest testimony: Jack Cahill’s fanciful imaginings could stand or fall on their own merits. However, there were some recent events she could trust him to be more reliable about: ‘What can you tell me about the IRA shooting in Poplar last week?’

‘Only what you’ve read in the papers. Just because I’m Irish it doesn’t mean I have an inside track on their assassinations.’

‘So you know he died, then?’

‘Doesn’t everyone? It was in today’s Times. Not front page, of course: as a middle-aged Scottish engineer in one of the poorest districts of London he would never warrant such prominence.’

‘We’re to hold the inquest on Thursday. The coroner told me Scotland Yard will be there.’

‘I’m not surprised they’re interested; McNeil was one of five people shot by the IRA that night in different parts of the country. One died at the time. And now McNeil has the dubious distinction of achieving the same notoriety.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Read the back copies. I really don’t want to be overheard engaging in a discussion of the finer points of IRA tactics in a pub known to be popular with Irish navvies and bricklayers.’

‘Look around you, Jack, no one is paying any attention to us. Why don’t you push your way to the counter for some more beers and satisfy yourself in the process that you are, indeed, as good as invisible?’

He let out a grunt of indignation as he got up from the table. If there was anything guaranteed to rouse Jack’s pride as a journalist, it was being thought inconsequential. He returned carrying two glasses of dark beer.

‘They’re down to the dregs and need to change the barrel, so I thought mild would do instead. I toyed with ordering a bitter top but considered it to be asking for trouble.’ He winked. ‘In case you’ve missed my point, that particular tipple is known as a black and tan. Which is what the IRA targets last week were all about.’

May had no choice but to admit defeat. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘The hated British soldiers sent over to control and subdue the Irish citizenry are mockingly called Black and Tans, on account of their black-belted uniforms.’

‘We’re to have an armed guard at the inquest.’ May hadn’t been able to stop her hand from shaking as she raised her glass of beer to her mouth. Jack patted her on the shoulder.

‘Scotland Yard will be left wondering why they bothered to break the firearms out of the cupboard because the IRA can smell a trap a mile off and won’t come near your courtroom. Besides, they’ll have paid off any potential informants by now.’

‘Paid off?’

‘Trust me, more money passes through the hands of Sinn Féin and the IRA than bullets. That’s their real weapon of choice because they can reach far more people with it, and they know that in the long-term the power of money is ultimately more effective than the power of guns. Although, of course, they also spend a fair proportion of that money on weapons. Most are destined for use on Irish soil. If we were over there, the police would be worrying more about them blowing up your inquest than picking off your witnesses.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel safer?’

‘It’s a reminder that Poplar is not Dublin and whilst you’ve got Scotland Yard playing at soldiers instead of the real thing guarding your courtroom, the IRA have bigger fish to fry.’ He pulled his jacket cuff back to check his wristwatch. ‘Now I have to drink up and get back to the newspaper in time to file another pointless piece that will end up being wrapped around tomorrow’s suppers. Come on, down that, and I’ll walk you to the end of the High Street.’

CHAPTER THREE

Dr Swan’s warning to expect more cases of food poisoning came back to haunt May when she was accosted on the pavement outside the courtroom by the caretaker, Alf Dent, who lived in the attic rooms to be on hand to receive bodies day and night.

‘Tell his nibs that bloody stupid motorcar of his slung across the gate meant I had to squeeze a stiff through and nearly put my back out. If I can’t get out of my bed, you’ll have to be hauling in guests yourself.’

May realised a reprimand for insolence would be water off a duck’s back and followed his shambling figure into the building. She left him to stump up the stairs as she went into the general office, where Rose was sitting at her desk with a woollen scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, her hands encased in fingerless gloves, her expression sour.

‘When are you going to do something about the heating? It’s freezing in here, can’t hardly feel the typewriter keys.’

May had to admit the girl had a point. But it was the same for all of them, and this time she couldn’t lay the blame at the door of a lazy caretaker.

‘Didn’t you read the memo from the London County Council came through on Wednesday? It was marked urgent, for everyone’s attention. The coal strike is beginning to bite, and everyone is subject to strict rationing. You must’ve noticed it at home?’

Rose squirmed in her chair before starting to fiddle with the typewriter ribbon; May realised there was probably at least one member of the young clerk’s family working in the loading yards and helping himself to the odd shovelful of coal. ‘Is Coroner Clarke here?’

‘In his chambers.’

May relented a little. ‘I’ll have a word with Alf Dent and see if I can’t persuade him to light the boiler a little earlier in the morning, so at least the worst of the chill will be taken off by the time you get in.’

Rose’s sulky pout transformed into a satisfied smile and May was glad she’d made the effort to show she wasn’t completely deaf to complaints. She went into her office to dump her outdoor things before going through to Braxton Clarke’s chambers to see why he was in Poplar that morning, given that he was supposed to be at his other court, in Shoreditch.

‘I know my turning up is a bit of a surprise, but I was required to be in Lewes yesterday then, when I got home, my wife announced a last-minute hitch with her photographic exhibition, and that she had to go to Paris to sort it out. Killing two birds with one stone – as I’ve had a detachable folding roof fitted and wanted to test it out – I drove Hildy to Croydon Aerodrome at the crack of dawn. From there I came on up to London. The Shoreditch court has no convenient place to leave the Hispano-Suiza where little boys won’t clamber all over her, so I parked her out back here. I needed to speak to you anyway, so the morning, up to this moment, has worked out for all concerned.’

Given his grumbling over restricted access to the mortuary complex, May doubted Alf Dent would agree. She had one question that burnt to be asked: ‘Is your wife Swedish?’

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘It is so reassuring to know I can always rely on you to put your finger on the most interesting topic at hand, instead of getting tramlined by irrelevant details such as why I wanted to speak to you. You’re not the first to wonder and, no, she isn’t. In fact, Hildy isn’t even her real name. Shall I let you in on her secret?’

May sat back in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, and looked forward to being the recipient of something that his manner implied would be an embarrassing confession.

‘My dear wife, for her sins, was christened Gunhild. Can you think of anyone prepared to go through life saddled with a name like that? Would you? The original Gunhild – of whom my wife is a direct descendant – was the youngest daughter of Harold Godwinson, the last Anglo-Saxon king of England.’

‘The one who got an arrow in his eye at the Battle of Hastings?’

‘The very one. To honour their royal heritage, the Chailey clan throughout the generations has given its children Anglo-Saxon names – some disguised in more modern spelling, some mortifyingly antiquated. I admit to getting a kick out of teasing my wife that she could have ended up as Sigrid the Haughty after the mother of King Canute – in all honesty, I wouldn’t put it past her father to have considered that.’

May laughed.

‘The upshot of having two parents with ridiculous names is that our boys have been spared squirming every time the school register is called because they are plain Rupert and Simon. Except Hildy didn’t want to be the first to break with tradition, so she sneaked in Oswald and Osbert for their middle names. Consequently, the little horrors like to refer to themselves as ROC and SOC. Right, that’s more than enough personal revelations, time to get down to business. I’m not in a position to share the details of why, but the instruction to go to Lewes came out of a meeting I had with the Lord Chancellor. Am I correct in recalling that you signed the Official Secrets Act in the course of your investigations into Montague Bray?’

May nodded. She was never likely to forget the details of her encounter with the Special Intelligence Service, and the way the coroner had so smoothly slipped in the change of subject was chilling.

‘The oath you took is as much in force now as it was then. Can I take it we don’t need to go over the penalties of non-compliance?’

‘No – they were drummed into me. Do I have to sign it again?’

‘Once is sufficient. Have you heard of Terence McSwiney?’

‘His name has been in headlines in all the serious newspapers, but I’m afraid I only really skim those.’

‘The Lord Mayor of Cork, Alderman McSwiney, was elected as a British MP but, as an active member of Sinn Féin, refused to take up his seat in the House of Commons. He was arrested for some papers found in his possession at the beginning of August, tried for sedition and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. After he was transferred to Brixton Gaol, he went on hunger strike and vowed to keep it until he starved himself to death. It is highly likely he will achieve that ambition.’

‘Why don’t they return him to prison in Ireland?’

‘The government fears that would not only make it look weak, but also it would probably lead to mutiny in the British army and police force over there. The whole affair has raised the spectre of a boycott of British goods by the Americans. It is suspected that when McSwiney dies the result will be unrest – most likely riotous violence – on the streets of London. The problem the Lord Chancellor has tasked me with has arisen as an indirect consequence of all of that. I need to meet with the governor of Lewes Gaol again. And I’d like you to be there when I do.’

‘As an objective witness?’

‘In the first instance, yes. William Verrall and I are old friends and he’s coming to dinner at Chailey Court this weekend. I appreciate it’s a highly unorthodox invitation – not to mention appallingly short notice – but would you be available to come down and join us? I wouldn’t dream of imposing on your free time if the Lord Chancellor didn’t believe Bill’s life would be in danger if they discover he is to come up to London. You’ll understand why I wholeheartedly endorse that suspicion when you hear what he has to say.’

May would have asked who they were, if she’d hadn’t already been sure he was not about to give her the answer.

‘I can offer you some excellent rambling across the South Downs, minutes from my doorstep, company that I hope you’ll find pleasant and stimulating, and a slap-up Sunday roast with all the trimmings. Hildy will still be in Paris, but my brother-in-law and his wife will be there and the boys too, of course. In fact, it’ll probably end up being quite a houseful, as my wife has the charming habit of issuing standing invitations to any starving artists who come her way. Do you think you could manage it? Do you want to? I can’t instruct you to come, obviously, but this seems to me to be the easiest way of getting the three of us together in private and secure surroundings. The boys would be thrilled, by the way; I’ve told them how you’re the only one in the world who admires the Hispano-Suiza as much as I do and they’re dying to meet such a strange person.’ He broke the tension with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘Will you come?’

‘I won’t need to wear anything special – for dinner I mean – will I? Because I’d like to do the journey down to Sussex on my motorbike if the fog stays away.’

‘No formal clothes required at all; we’re very free and easy at Chailey Court. But do find room to pack your walking boots. I’ll write out directions how to find us and leave them on your desk. Right, I’d better head off to Shoreditch before I’m so late Mr Wren gets it into his head to cancel this morning’s inquest.’

May walked out of the chambers and back to her office pondering just what she had committed herself to, and quite how momentous this weekend would turn out to be.